Twenty Years Apart
by DellaVie
Summary: Sam's last-ditch effort to save Dean didn't work as well as he hoped. Season 3 AU.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **I solemnly swear I don't own the fandoms.

**Timeline:** AU season 3 _Supernatural_. Canon for all seven _Harry Potter_ books.

* * *

Prologue

* * *

Sam surveyed the room, making sure everything was in the right position. Sigils painted in both charcoal and chalk lined the splintered – and in some places peeling – walls of the decrepit house that Sam had chosen. A larger, more articulate design christened the floor in blood; candles surrounding its seven main points.

The ritual was specific, and it required fresh, human blood to work. This meant that Sam had donated a pint of his very own O-pos instead of liberating from the morgue. The hospital had crossed his mind, and disappeared just as fast. He wasn't about to steal from those in need for something that might not work.

He'd found the spell in an archaic text of dark and dangerous rituals that positively screamed, _For God's sake, shut the friggin' book and walk away!_

Of course, that didn't matter to Sam. Dean's time was running out, and Sam was beyond desperate to ensure that his brother didn't go to hell, especially for him.

Now, if only big bro' would feel the same way...

Sam lit the candles and started chanting the first part of the ritual. Dean's presence wasn't required until the end, which was exactly when Sam hoped he would show. He knew Dean would disagree with taking this road – hell, if it wasn't his brother's _soul_ on the line, Sam would too – but Sam wasn't going to give Dean the chance to opt out. They were running out of time, and they hadn't found any other way to save him.

Sam smiled grimly as he realised it must be a genetic Winchester trait to do whatever was necessary to save family.

When he finished the incantation, he stood by the edge of the symbol on the ground. One foot was dangerously close to crossing the line. The slight flicker of the candles was the only indication that his method was correct so far. He double-checked that everything else was in place, and then he waited.

A low rumbling announced the Impala's arrival, and Sam took a deep breath to brace himself for what was sure to be an ugly confrontation.

Footsteps ascended the creaking steps and a second later the front door groaned. "Sammy?"

"In here."

When Dean appeared in the living room archway, his expression shifted from confused to suspicious as he took in the candles and markings on the walls. "What's going on?"

"I found a way to save you."

Dean made no move to enter. "Oh?"

Sam nodded. "A spell."

"Where?"

That wasn't the next thing Sam was expecting from Dean "Huh?"

"Where did you find this miracle spell?"

_Well... _"In a book."

"Sam," the warning was evident.

He sighed, exasperated. This wasn't going the way he'd planned. "What, Dean? I found a way to save you. Why don't you stop looking a gift horse in the mouth and just help me?"

"Because you won't tell me where you got it, or even what it is. I'm not likin' this Sam."

"You don't have to like it Dean." Maybe he could just push him in the circle...

Dean quelled his thoughts with a look. "Just tell me what it is."

"It's..." Sam ran a hand through his hair. His voice trailed off to a murmur.

"I'm sorry Sam, I didn't quite catch that."

"I said it's a spell for time travel."

Silence.

More silence.

A long, unending -

"You gotta be friggin' kiddin' me!"

"Look," Sam tried to explain, "your deal's up in four days-"

"Really Sam? I could've sworn it was next week," the sarcasm was so thick Sam could bottle and sell it.

"-And we have no plan, no way to save you. But if we go back to before you even made the deal-"

"Sam," Dean cut him off again. "We're not changing the past. Are you in-friggin'-sane? This is heavy duty crap that we don't need to go wading through. I'm not going back to find that because I sneezed, you died. Or I died. Or I'm married to Demi Moore. It's just not happening." He reconsidered. "Though, Demi is pretty hot..."

Sam brought him back on topic. "Look I'm not suggesting that we change the past. I'm just saying we go back, so we have more time to figure out a way out of it. We go back a few years to someplace we know we've never been, and work on it until we find a solution."

"Ah hell Sam, Why don't we just go back thirty years and live out the rest of our lives in the seventies?"

Sam paused. He hadn't considered that.

Dean saw his face. "Of course we're not going back, the hell's the matter with you?"

Sam looked up to Dean, but his words were silenced by Dean's resolute tone;

"We're not working on some half-assed idea to go friggin' _time travelling_. That's wrong on so many levels I can't even count that high. End of story. We'll work on something else."

He turned to leave the room, but stopped at the desperate plea in which Sam called his name.

When he looked Sam in the eye, his face hardened as his brother started chanting. "Sam, what are you doing? Cut it out!"

When Sam ignored him, Dean decided to make him stop the old-fashioned way.

What he didn't know was that Sam had already spoken the incantation, and he was now just muttering a Latin house-cleansing ritual. As soon as his foot landed over the sigil on the ground, he disappeared with a flash.

Sam knew that Dean would resort to the force, and had his foot hovering over the mark, ready to put down at the same time as Dean.

What he didn't know was that he was a second later than Dean. And in a spell that deals with time, it might make all the difference in the world.


	2. Over the Rainbow

Over the Rainbow  
_(1974 Quidditch World Cup)_

* * *

There was no ornate lightshow or special effects extravaganza like he'd seen on _Terminator_. Just a blink, and then Dean Winchester found himself standing in a different room than the one he had a second earlier. Thankfully, he was clothed as well. In Dean's mind that movie had a lot of explaining to do.

As his mind struggled to catch up with the change, he realised that it wasn't a room at all. It was a field.

A rather busy field, if the littering of tents and bustling people were anything to go by. _Some sort of hippy/renaissance fair_, Dean theorised as he eyed the cloaks passing him. _Oh God, not the actual rennaissance, _Dean hoped. All that he remembered from vague high school conversations was that the renaissance ended before the Single Action Army was a twinkle in Samuel Colts' eyes.

Amidst all the people coming and going he noticed that one very important thing was missing. That thing being, of course, his brother.

Realising the futility of calling out Sam's name, Dean had his phone open and auto-dialling Sam before his mind calculated that into the pointless column as well. True to form, it beeped, and a glance back at the screen dispassionately told him that there was no signal. A second beep quickly warned that his battery was nearly flat.

Dean pocketed the now-useless technology, and after a quick check to reassure that his gun had survived the trip to wonderland, Dean proceeded in search of someone who might be able to help him figure out where the hell he was. Sorry, _when_ the hell he was. _Nair in the shampoo will seem child's play compared to what I'm going to do to Sammy when I find him. Possibly something involving glue, string and a whole lot of duct tape..._

He'd made it all of two steps when he stopped in shock as a nearby man waved a stick, causing the little bag he'd put on the ground to erect itself into a two-man tent.

Magic. Had to be.

Dean looked around and found that no one else seemed to be surprised by the little display. It was then that he realised that _he_ was the odd one out, and therefore greatly outnumbered by an encampment of witches/warlocks/whatever.

_...and maybe some paint. And feathers, lots of feathers. Sammy's going to rue the damn day he even _thought _about this._

Dean tried to seem as inconspicuous as possible. He kept his gait relaxed (on the outside, at least), and avoided eye contact as his searching stare became the perusal of a relaxed camper, taking in the activities around him.

He passed by several tents and conversations, instantly picking up on the English accents. Which led him to conclude that he was in England. Which meant that... _was that kid flying on a broom?_

Dean's mental process went out the window as a small boy no more than ten cut Dean off, flying on a broom. He watched as the kid swerved in an effort to miss him, and ended up colliding into a nearby tent. Loud clangs and shouts could be heard inside, as though he had just knocked down a wall, not a piece of fabric.

A stern-faced woman appeared at the flaps a minute later, and seeing the boy sprawled by the sagging corner, proceeded to give him a stern talking to.

Beneath the dark locks, Dean could make out blue eyes widened in panic. Taking pity on the boy, Dean plastered on a concerned face stepped over.

"Excuse me, is there a problem?"

At the sound of his voice, the woman turned her eagle gaze onto him. "Of _course_ there isn't a problem. Everything is fan_tast_ic - I just happen to like ranting about broken shelves for no reason."

_Wow, Brits sure can pull out the sarcasm when they need to._ Dean blinked. "Look lady, I was just offering to help. Way I see it, the damage is done, and the kid's sorry, right?"

The woman's piercing gaze flicked back to the intimidated youth, who swallowed audibly in response. When Dean nudged him with his foot, he nodded slowly.

When the woman continued to glare, Dean added, "And I'm sure he wouldn't hesitate to help clean up any mess he caused," _to your shelves...?_ "but unfortunately he's still got to fix up the mess over at, uhh..." _Crap, what's an English name? _"Hitching's. If you like, I can send him back later...?"

At this piece of information, the woman let out a frustrated sigh. "That won't be necessary. Just make sure..." her brow wrinkled, "Hitching puts the boy to work. A little discipline would do him good." With one last huff, she turned back into the tent, angry mutterings under her breath.

When he was sure the lady was out of earshot, Dean held out a hand. The boy eyed him warily before taking it. He brushed off his pants before picking up his broom. When he was finished, he turned back to Dean and bit his lip. "Is Hitching the fellow whose stall I knocked over?"

Dean shrugged. "I have no idea. Rule of thumb, kid; adults are less inclined to discipline you if they think you're already going to get it much worse from someone else."

The boy looked up, and when Dean winked he smiled. "Thanks."

"No worries," Dean replied. He inclined his head and they started walking. "I'm Dean," he prompted, hoping the kid would reply. He was getting sick of calling him "boy".

"I'm Regulus."

Dean let out a scoff that quickly turned into a cough. When Regulus cast a glance his way, he quickly changed the topic. "So Regulus, you know what's going on here?"

Regulus' eyebrows disappeared under his fringe. "You don't know?"

"I just got here."

Regulus cocked his head to the side in scrutiny. "From... America?"

"Yeah. So what's going on?"

"It's the World Cup."

"Right, and what time does it start?"

Regulus stopped walking at that. "It's already over."

Years of putting up with his brother rambling on about things Dean had no idea about taught him to to bat an eyelash when he'd let his ignorance show. Instead, he turned back to the kid with his brows furrowed in surprise. "You mean I missed it?"

Though he answered "Yeah," it was clear Regulus was really saying, _Duh!_ "what were you doing?"

"I got here early and went for a drink - the rest is fuzzy after that."

Regulus seemed to accept this answer and nodded. Dean was relieved to know that no matter what time or place he was in, all problems could be explained away by alcohol.

"Firewhiskey?"

"Huh?"

"Was it firewhiskey?" Regulus asked.

"To tell you the truth, I don't really remember." _Best to leave it vague_, Dean decided. _Less details means less likely to be caught out_.

"My brother likes firewhiskey," Regulus continued, relaxing a bit more now that he had an avenue of conversation to pursue. "He says it tastes like piss and kicks like a centaur when they can't see the stars."

Dean let out a little laugh, "Can't say I've heard that one before."

"He was drinking firewhiskey when he said it."

"Your brother sounds like my kinda guy."

"Yeah." Regulus grew quiet. "Everyone likes him."

Knowing a chick-flick issue when he saw one, Dean changed the topic. "So what were you doing back there? Is tent-crashing the latest craze?"

"I was practicing," He admitted. "I want to try out for the team this year."

_Uh-huh. Yeah. A sport played on broomsticks. _"Which team?"

"My house. Slytherin," He added, when Dean looked ready to ask again.

Chancing how much he could ask before he made a fool of himself, he hoped that this sport followed the same basics of most sports. "What position?"

Regulus sighed and murmured something unintelligible.

"Sorry, I didn't quite catch that."

Regulus raised his voice by the smallest fraction, and Dean could make out the word, _beeder. Or was it beaker? Or beater? ...Beaver?_

"Huh?"

The voice went up again. "Beater."

"What?"

And again. "Beater!"

Dean shrugged as if to say he couldn't hear. Which was ridiculous because the kid had returned to normal conversation levels.

Frustrated, Regulus yelled. "I said I wanted to be a BEATER!"

Several people nearby turned their heads at his outburst, and Regulus dropped his head in embarrassment.

Dean ignored the whole thing completely. "Oh, so you want to be a beater, eh?"

Regulus looked up at Dean's flippant tone. There was accusation in his eyes, and the briefest hint of betrayal. Dean tried to figure out if it was because "beater" was some taboo subject, or because he'd made the kid make a spectacle of himself.

He didn't get a chance to ask as Regulus ran off, darting around the strangers who were still eyeing him with curiosity.

Dean cursed under his breath and chased him. "Hey kid - Regulus - stop!"

Of course this only prompted him to run faster. After spending years hunting down wolves, spirits and the occasional black dog, ten year olds were surprisingly easy. Dean caught up to him in less than a minute. Just in time, it seemed, as Regulus was about to mount the broom and take to the air.

Dean snatched a handful of clothes and yanked. Regulus' lanky frame stumbled backwards, but Dean caught him before he could fall. When he made sure the kid was steady, Dean noticed he had a stick pointed at him. _Probably a wand or some shit, _Dean surmised, recalling the man who used one to erect his tent.

Not wanting to fight, Dean opted to bluff instead. Levelling his most intimidating glare, he spoke in a low voice, "Don't even try it."

Frightened, Regulus' grip wavered. Dean held his stare and raised an eyebrow in challenge until the boy surrendered, lowering the piece of wood to point at the ground.

Dean relaxed his grip, but didn't let go. He didn't want the kid running off before he said his peace, not after going to all that effort to chase him down. "Look, kid, is it really that bad being a beater?"

Regulus shook his head.

"Then what are you ashamed of, huh?"

The accusing stare was back. "You're just like him."

"Just like who?"

Regulus' eyes narrowed. "You just pull mean jokes on people and expect them to forget about it when you want them to. You're a jerk."

"Woah, hey," Dean let go of Regulus and raised his hands in surrender. The words were hitting a little close to his teenage years. "Look, no one cares that you called out like that. Those people have probably already forgotten about it. Besides, even if they do remember, you said it yourself; there's nothing wrong with being a beater. Now either you weren't telling me the truth about that, or you're just getting girly - overreacting," he quickly amended, "over something small."

Regulus shook his head. "You don't get it."

It was at this point that Dean decided he needed to know what the hell a beater was. "Do you want to be a beater, yes or no?"

Regulus petulantly looked down at his feet. Dean grabbed his shoulder insistently,

"Yes or no?"

"Yes," He mumbled.

"Then why do you care whether random strangers know it?"

"Because I'm no good at it."

Dean winced inwardly as he realised he'd somehow wormed himself into a chick-flick moment. He sighed. No way but through...

"I got a brother too, you know. We go hunting together.

"Thing is, when we started, he was terrible at it. Which is strange, because Sammy usually gets everything first try. But my Dad an I took him out, and he couldn't hit a thing, his aim was so bad."

Not feeling cheered up in the least, Regulus pouted. "So."

"_So,_ my point is that he practiced at it. Every day. Now he's got damn near perfect aim. You keep at it and you'll get there too."

There was a silence after that as Regulus considered his words. When he was done he gave a small nod of acknowledgement.

Dean smiled gratefully and clapped him on the back. "Good, now let's talk about something else, okay?"

They resumed walking, Dean keeping stride but letting the shorter boy lead. After a minute, Regulus spoke, "What do you hunt?"

"Huh?"

"You said you and your brother hunt. What do you hunt? Like Knarls and stuff?"

"Uhh," Dean struggled to think of something that a witch - or witch-boy... warlock? - wouldn't take offense to him hunting. All he come up with was something already dead. "Zombies."

"What's a zombies?"

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?" Even civvies know about zombies. Well, _of _them at least. "They're dead, but they move around. Living dead."

Regulus formed an 'O' of understanding. "You mean inferi?"

Dean was about to reply that he didn't know what the hell Regulus was talking about when he remembered the research his father had made him do on his first zombie hunt. The word inferi had come up in one of the texts. Though he didn't have Sam to confirm, he figured he was close enough. "Yeah, we just have a different name for them in the states, I guess."

Regulus' eyes lit up. "That is so cool! Could you teach me how to hunt them?"

Dean was saved from replying when a voice called out Regulus' name. They turned to see a slightly older teen heading their way. Regulus' shoulders slumped.

When he approached, Dean noted the similar features and deduced that he was the brother Regulus had mentioned. "Where have you been? Mother's been ready to leave for an hour now. And father's not too happy with you either." He finally noticed Dean and nodded. " 'Lo."

Dean nodded in reply. "Hey."

Sirius cocked his head to the side, much like Regulus had. "Yank?"

Dean mocked him, "Brit?"

He smiled and held out a hand. "Sirius."

A sarcastic reply was on the tip of Dean's tongue when he noticed the outstretched hand. His gaze switched between the brothers before he realised that it was possible bizarre names ran in the family. He shook it. "Dean."

They both let go and Dean waited for Sirius to make the next move. For a person who scolded his brother on tardiness, he seemed in no rush to get back. "How about that match, eh?"

Dean looked to Regulus, who blinked back innocently. "Riveting," was all Dean could come up with.

Obviously this wasn't the right answer as Sirius frowned. "It didn't even last an hour."

A slight sniggering to his left drew Dean's attention down to Regulus' smiling form. "Thanks a lot, kid."

"No problem."

Dean scuffed him playfully on the ear before giving him a gentle shove. "You better head back, wouldn't want her to come looking for you and find Ole' Hitching's stall all destroyed."

"You destroyed Hitching's stall?" Sirius asked. "Wait, who's Hitchings?"

Regulus let out a snicker as he waved to Dean. "Thanks."

"Later," Dean nodded.

Sirius lingered, halting Regulus departure. "I apologise for my brother," he said solemnly. "We try to keep him locked up, but every now and then the cage needs cleaning, so..." He shrugged as if to say _what are ya gonna do?_

Regulus ducked his head again at the words, not game to meet Dean's eye.

"I dunno, he seems alright. People are talking about how he's gonna be a kickass beater one day."

The way Sirius laughed suggested he highly doubted it. "Beater, that's a good one." He slung an arm around his brothers' shoulders. "Anyway, must dash. Nice meeting you. You're alright for a yank."

"There's nothing I like to hear more," Dean deadpanned.

Sirius let out another bark of laughter as he gave his brother a slight shove in the direction of their tent. "Come on, Reg."

Dean watched as the brothers walked off, waiting until Regulus looked back. When he did, Dean shook his head as though to discredit what his brother had said, and gave him one last wink of encouragement.

"Oh, hey!" Dean called out, suddenly remembering his situation. The boys turned around. "You haven't happened to have seen a guy about this tall-" He raised his hand as an indicator, "-with brown hair and big ole' puppy dog eyes wandering around, have you?"

Regulus' brow furrowed. "Why does he have dog eyes?"

"It's an expression."

"Oh. No, I haven't seen him."

Sirius shrugged. "No, but the officials set up a lost and found, you could try there. It's out front of the pitch."

"Right, thanks." Dean looked to Regulus, who tilted his head in the direction of the pitch before turning around and following his brother.

Having successfully conversed with three different witch-people (really need confirmation on that), Dean casually strolled to the pitch in hopes of finding his brother, confident that he wouldn't be found out and turned into a toad.

He was right on the second part.


	3. Lost and Found

Lost and Found

* * *

There were hardly any people left by the time Dean made it to the pitch. He noticed a few wizard/warlock people walking around the outside flicking their wands in what could only be described as a girly manner. The walls of the pitch unfurled from the top and folded until the seven-storey tall arena was reduced to a six-foot high block.

"Can I help you there?"

Dean turned to see a tall, gangly stick of a man in official looking clothes. Well, as official as a man could look when he was wearing a dress (he suspected that the clipboard was what did it).

Dean spread his arms wide. "Lost and found?"

"Just over there," The man nodded to a haphazardly constructed table/stall setup by the wall.

"Thanks." Dean made it all of two steps before Larry Longlegs spoke again.

"American?"

"Yes."

"Right, right." He nodded as though that explained everything. Dean was tossed between wanting to punch him, and find Sam.

Sam came first. As usual.

There was only one other person perusing the haphazard stall/counter set up that was the Lost and Found, and Jesus if he wasn't the textbook definition of Merlin. The man was old and grey and had more beard than bones. It was because of this person that Dean decided to refer to them all as wizards from now on, because if anyone looked the part, it was this guy.

He was sifting through the clothes stand with a curious expression on his face. Dean wondered if he had actually lost something, or just liked to rifle through other peoples' things.

He shrugged it off and crossed to a table of assorted knick-knacks where another official looking wizard (matching robes, he had no clipboard) was standing.

"Excuse me... Uh, hello?" When the portly gent – _portly gent? I've been here ten minutes and already I'm talking plum crazy… I didn't just think that–_

"…Of assistance?"

"What?"

The wizard sighed. "American."

Dean sent him his best glare, the one reserved for demons and whatever fugly he had to save his brother from.

Being all of five-feet-zero, the man swallowed and repeated much more politely, "I said how can I be of assistance?"

"I'm looking for my brother Sam. He's about this tall," He held up a hand, "brown hair – old ladies like to pinch his cheeks and tell him how adorable he is."

The man blinked. Dean suspected he was sifting through the statement to find something he could reply to. _Serves him right._

"That tall, you say?"

"Yeah, practically a giant," Dean nodded.

The man raised his eyebrows. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I haven't seen…"

Having already lost interest at "I'm sorry", Dean turned around to address the barking that had cut the man short. A little clump of fur that Dean had mistaken for… well, a clump of fur, had in fact been a sleeping dog. A Jack Russell, the residual memory of grade three fantasies for a pet informed him.

Said dog was currently alternating between growling and barking at Dean something fierce. _I can see why he hasn't been found yet._

Dean was about to comment to that effect when he noticed that the wizard was furiously scribbling something down on a piece of paper, casting slightly panicked glances in Dean's direction.

_Okay, this guy is officially weirder than the little girl with the rabbit ears._ At least he thought they were ears, he was too preoccupied chasing Regulus to stop and check.

"Thanks for all your… help. If you see my brother, let me know." He didn't bother leaving a number, the phone was likely dead by now and they probably had some magical way of compensating for technology anyway.

"No, no you can't go!" The man waved his arms about frantically. _Yep, definitely beats bunny girl._ "I, uhh… I think I see your brother."

Dean didn't need to look to see that he was lying. Or stalling. Or an idiot. He turned to go with a sigh. "Right, _English.._."

"Oh come now, surely we aren't all bad?"

It was the old guy who had spoken. Merlin. He knelt down by the dog and managed to soothe him with a few strokes. Either he had the worst possible timing or Dean had somehow been outed and they were starting to converge.

_Time to bail_. He turned around, and came face to face with a three wizards, two of which had their wands pointed at him. "Something wrong?" He bit down the _officers_ part.

"That's him! He's the muggle!"

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"A muggle, eh?" The foremost wizard said, his suspicious gaze sizing Dean up. "Well, you're gonna have to come with us."

"You're gonna have to make me," Dean retorted. When he saw him raise his wand, he conceded. "Or we could talk here. Here is good."

"I'm afraid I must insist." The man smiled. If he didn't know better Dean would swear the man was itching for a fight. The wizards behind him seemed to sense it, and were bracing themselves for Dean's resistance. _Well, they're right about that much, I ain't going without– _

"Is everything alright?"

Merlin – Did that guy stick his nose in everything? He was currently standing to the side, watching the interaction with rapt interest.

His would-be imprisoners seemed to know him, as they – with the exception of the unwavering leader – fumbled. "Everything's fine, Albus. Just taking care of a wayward muggle."

"I see," he stroked the part of his beard that wasn't tucked into his belt. "However did you manage to discern that he was in fact a muggle? I daresay I would have had a hard time telling him apart, particularly here."

The man turned to Shifty McWeirderson, who straightened up proudly. "That was me – Auron Shantz, sir. I noticed that the crup reacted strongly to his presence and notified Mr Moody here."

_Crup? What the hell is a…_ He caught sight of the dog tied to a pole. _That's gotta be the lamest name for a dog, bar none. _Dean was about to try and talk his way out of this when the old man who was apparently named Dumbledore beat him to it.

"That's some fine work, Mr Shantz," Dumbledore commended. "But forgive me; do crup also react to a squib as they would a muggle?"

At his words, all the wizards present turned on Dean in scrutiny. He in turn glanced at Auron and raised an eyebrow. "Well, do they?"

The man ducked his head, and fumbled for a reply. "He thought Giants were six feet tall!"

Dean let his sarcasm show. "I was _joking_."

The contingent of wizarding… police(?) All considered Auron Shantz – _and what the hell is up with the names in this place? Wizards are cracked _– anew. When Moody apparently decided that he wasn't the reliable source he once thought, he glanced at Dean and asked in his gruff voice, "Well, are you?"

"Am I what?"

"A squib?"

Dean snuck a glance at Dumbledore. The old man seemed to be on his side, so he might as well go with him, for now. Even though he wasn't sure that being a 'squib' was much better than a 'muggle'. "Yeah."

"And you're from America?"

He was getting sick of that question. Thankfully they weren't really expecting an answer, as Moody seemed to be merely thinking aloud.

"…Which means we can't validate your ancestry. This is sounding a little far-fetched." He glared at Dean. "Who's to say you're not a Death Eater in disguise?"

Dean didn't know what exactly a person that ate death was (besides gross), but he doubted they would make their presence known. He said as much. Moody didn't seem impressed.

"If I may…?" Dumbledore interjected. "Perhaps we could simply ask him something of the magical world?"

Moody nodded. "Good idea Albus." He turned to Dean. "In which year was the first Quidditch World Cup?"

Dean opened and closed his mouth. "You gotta be shittin' me."

"Perhaps something not so… historic?" Dumbledore suggested.

Moody waved Dumbledore as if to indicate he could take the floor.

"How tall are giants?"

Dean paused. "Taller than I can gesture with my hand."

"Oh please, like that's hard." Shantz scoffed. Though he still quietened up when Dean glared at him.

"I got one for you;" Dean turned the table, "how did I end up here, if not by magic?"

"That's not a convincing question, Mr…"

"Scott."

"Mr... Scott." Moody finished. "You'll need more than that to convince us."

Dumbledore held up a finger for attention. After a minute's consternation, he looked to Dean. "Name one spell which can return the dead to life."

Dean blinked. How the hell was he supposed to know that? In all his years of hunting he hadn't heard of any such thing. If he had, he would've used it last year instead of making that damn deal.

He looked over to Dumbledore. The mans' eyes were sparkling and when their gazes met, he raised his eyebrow the slightest fraction as if to say _you should know this_.

But he didn't. All he knew was… Wait a minute, maybe it was _all_ that he needed to know. "There isn't one. Short of going to a crossroads or playing puppeteer to a bunch of zombies, dead is dead."

Apparently this was something out of Shantz area of expertise, as his face was scrunched up in confusion. The others fared little better; they looked to Moody in anticipation. Dumbledore was smiling.

"And what do you know of crossroads?" Moody's voice commanded.

"That's it's dark stuff that only leads to badness, or death. Or both."

Moody stared him straight in the eye for what felt like the longest time. When he reached a decision, he held out his hand. "Sorry to bother you Mr… Scott."

"It's alright." He shook it. "Actually it's not, but it's also not your fault, so don't worry about it."

The sound of Shantz' swallowing was audible.

After Moody and his lackeys – or trainees? They were awfully young – departed, Auron Shantz made himself scarce. Which just left…

"Lemon Sherbet?"

…One crazy-ass octogenarian.


	4. Through the Looking Glass

Through the Looking Glass

* * *

"Look, while I'm flattered – and believe me I am. There is nothing more I'd like to do than teach a bunch of kids–" Dean made a face behind Dumbledore's back. "I'm sort of busy looking for my brother, and when I find him I'm pretty sure we won't be hanging around the motherland. So, do you think you could help me get the word out that I'm looking for him or something?"

Dean was beginning to think he was wrong in his earlier estimation of the old man he was currently chasing after. The first thing he did after saving Dean's ass from the wizard-police was offer him a job teaching Muggle Studies (huh?); which inferred that he seemed to think Dean was a capable _teacher _after only knowing him for five minutes. And without even waiting for a reply he had started off back into the throng of tents with a speed belying his age. Dean had nearly lost him a few times now, and it was starting to wear thin. If he didn't stop in the next five seconds and answer his questions, Dean was going to just drop the whole thing and go back to looking for his brother.

As though he could read minds – and God, what a disturbing notion that is - Dumbledore (_again with the names!_) stopped abruptly and spun to face him. He had dropped the distracted look that often affected the Attention Deficit or highly stoned and was peering into Deans' eyes in a rare moment of utter seriousness which made Dean doubt his earlier doubts about the man.

"Mister Scott, I regret that I am the one to inform you, however I feel that it is prudent not to lead you along on a 'wild goose chase', as it were.

"You brother is not currently here."

Dean scoffed. "You can't know that. There's at least," He glanced around at made an estimation based on what he could see, "four hundred people here, and there's no way you went and asked them all in the ten minutes I've been tailing you since we met. Hell, you don't know what he looks like."

Dumbledore cocked his head to the side. "This tall," he gestured, "with brown hair and hazel eyes. Wearing similar clothing to you, and has a mole on his left cheek."

While yes, the height, hair and eyes were all generic – probably not the clothes for this crowd – Dean didn't recall telling anyone that his brother had a mole, which drained all the easy-going nature right out of him. "Where is he?"

"I'm afraid I don't know."

"Bullshit. You knew he has a mole. I didn't even know he had a mole until you reminded me. Where is he?"

Instead of answering, Dumbledore posed another question; "When you see your brother in your mind's eye, does he not have a mole?"

Well yeah, he did. But Dean didn't really pay attention to it and crap the guy can read minds. Dean's open mouth went through a series of tics and spasms as he tried to formulate a response considering that new piece of information.

"Rest assured Mr. Scott, to know a person's mind takes considerable time and effort. However, if there is something quite pressing, it is often lying on the surface for even the most novice of occlumens to see. Quite frankly, it would be difficult _not_ to notice."

He didn't know what an 'occlumens' was but he did know that Albus Dumbledore, the guy he was currently pointing to, needed to "Cut that freaky shit out, and tell me where my brother is."

"As I have already stated, I do not know." Dumbledore repeated. "Perhaps we should sit down and discuss this?"

"Perhaps you should stop trying to screw with me," Dean threatened, his hand twitching towards his gun.

Dumbledore noticed. "Do you really think that is a wise decision considering where you are?"

A carnival full of wizards, right. Dean glared but his hand stopped moving.

"I truly am trying to help you, and I feel that is something you might need right now, Mister Scott."

He seemed awfully sincere, but the tentative trust they had built earlier wasn't quite back yet, so he simply folded his arms. "What do you want?"

"To help you locate your brother."

"Ahuh, and what do you want in return?"

"I'm sorry?" Though from the look on his face, he knew perfectly well what he was implying.

"No one goes around helping people for nothing. Nuns maybe."

Dumbledore considered this. "What about hunters? Surely they do not risk themselves for the sparse remuneration they receive?"

"They're all driven by revenge and grief," Dean countered. "And I told you to cut that out."

"And you? Are you driven by revenge and grief?"

"Cut. It. Out." Dean growled.

"It does not take a mind reader to know that you are an earnest soul. Your actions say it clear as day." Point made, he clapped his hands and glanced around. "Now might we perhaps sit down? My legs are starting to tire. It's terrible when your own body is the one that reminds you that you are no longer as young as you once thought."

Dean folded his arms, and Dumbledore simply shrugged it off. He pulled out his own wand and waved it around. A table and two chairs appeared in the vacant space that was occupied by a tent not ten minutes ago. A quick glance showed that a great deal of people had dispersed during the course of their conversation, and at this rate they would all most likely be gone by sundown. _It's easy to be efficient when you can rely on magic for all the hard __labour__. It's a wonder they're not all fat_.

He ran a hand through his hair. "Okay, so you're sure that Sam isn't here?"

Dumbledore had since summoned a teacup and kettle and was currently adding the sugar. _Great, I've fallen through the looking glass and am sitting at a tea party waiting to hear advice from the Mad Hatter._

"I'm quite certain. Tea?"

Dean ignored the offer. "Okay, so then I need to get back to America. Maybe he didn't get sent here because he didn't step in the… circle…" Dean trailed off as he recalled the purpose of said circle. He slapped himself on the head. "God, you're such an idiot!"

Of course Sam wasn't here, because he didn't step in the freaky-ass time circle. He was still probably in Good Ole' 2008 patting himself on the back on his genius plan. Meanwhile Dean was stuck in-

"What year is it?"

"Nineteen Seventy-four." Dumbledore replied, as though people often forgot which year they were in.

Dean blinked. "I'm sorry, what? Nineteen Seventy-four? I'm in Nineteen Seventy-four? In England?" Thirty-four years. He was thirty-four years in the past. "Oh this is fan-friggin'-tastic."

Dumbledore didn't pay him any mind. "If you don't mind my asking, which year were you hoping it would be?"

Dean appraised him for a minute before he decided that he really had nothing to lose. He sighed and sat down. "Two Thousand and Eight."

Dumbledore closed his hands to form a pistol and rested his chin in the L. "Hmm, that is quite certainly an unfortunate circumstance you find yourself in."

"Wow, you are truly a wise and insightful man." Dean drawled.

"It is not often I find myself in such a position." He mused.

"Yeah, and what position's that?"

"At a loss."

"I got a suggestion," Without waiting for an answer he said, "You wave your little wand around and send me back."

"Would that it were that simple, Mister Scott."

"Well if a muggle – and I'm assuming that's the right word here – can get himself sent to the past, surely a guy who practices magic like it's going out of style can send him back no problem."

"Time travel is a difficult process," Dumbledore explained. When Dean went to retort he added, "And a highly illegal one, even by wizarding standards. Even if we validated your claim to be from the future – and I do believe you – it is not so simple 'waving a little wand around' and sending you back. The capabilities and technologies for such things have all been destroyed, lest they fall into the wrong hands."

"And yet, I'm here." Dean pointed out.

"The dark magicks which are available to muggles that no doubt brought you here are not for us to police. Whilst we may think we know better, it is truly not our position to judge what is right for another culture." Dean got the impression that there was more to that comment than he knew. "We are a self-regulated society and have resolutely decided not to interfere in the affairs of muggles unless it is to resolve an issue we have created."

"So you're not going to help."

"Oh no, I'll assist you in any way I can."

"Then why did you just say-"

"To inform you not to expect such support from others."

So basically, it was him and a crazy old man against the world. Joy. "Anything else I should know?"

"There are a few things, actually."

"Shoot." When Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, he waved him to continue.

"The most pressing of these is that we are currently at war."

He sighed. "Of course you are. With who, the Russians?"

"His name is Lord Voldemort…"


	5. Twenty Years Too Late

Twenty Years Too Late

* * *

Sam wasn't sure how the spell was supposed to work exactly, so he was a little surprised to find himself standing in a field at a renaissance fair. _Dean's going to love this._

"Oh, sorry."

"No need to apologise, it's entirely my fault."

Sam turned to see who had bumped into him and gave a double-take. Two redheads – twins – identical twins were currently bickering over who was responsible for bumping into him. Though, oddly enough they both wanted the honour instead of the opposite. He raised an eyebrow.

They noticed he was paying attention and looked properly chastised. "I'm sorry about that–" The one on the left started.

"–No, _I_ am," The second cut in.

"–We both are," He amended.

"It's just that we didn't see you."

"Which is odd, because you are quite tall."

"Frightfully so."

"You wouldn't happen to be part-giant, would you?"

"But a very small part, obviously."

"Like a quarter."

"Or a third."

"Or a third." The first amended.

They both turned to him expectantly. Apparently he was supposed to answer the question. But in the rambling he'd forgotten what it was, so instead he said, "You're English?"

"He speaks!"

"He speaks funny."

"Sounds American."

"Oooh," they said in unison.

"Right." He tried not to smile at their antics. "I'm looking for my brother. His name's Dean. He's about this tall," He gestured, "And has hazel eyes."

"Well that's not terribly tall at all, is it Fred?"

"No, George, I must say I'm somewhat disappointed."

Well, at least he knew their names now. Not that he'd be able to use them if they switched positions.

"Fred, George – stop hassling that man!" Came a genial voice from what could only be their father. He stood by a tent with a box and five or so matches in the his hands.

"But Dad, he's American!" Fred protested, like it made all the difference in the world.

"And a quarter-giant." George added.

"Or a third."

"Or a third."

"And he's lost his brother."

"Who isn't really tall for a giant at all."

"But still quite tall for a normal person."

"Perhaps he is just a normal person then."

Fred turned to him, "Are you _sure _he's your brother?"

Sam sighed.

"Boys, come give me a hand with the matches."

"Coming Dad," They chimed.

"Look, I'm sorry, but we haven't spotted him about at all."

"–No, _I'm _sorry." George interjected.

"–But you could try the Lost and Found, out front of the pitch."

"People have been known to find each other there."

"Or the pub."

"That's where we'd find each other," George nodded.

"If we were allowed in."

"Unfortunately we're a smidgen too young."

"Breaks our hearts." Fred sniffed.

"But good luck finding your brother."

"And if it all doesn't work out, try going to a high spot and looking down over everyone."

"Like on your toes."

"Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

It took Sam a few minutes for his mind to come back to the present after they'd left. It was in that time he didn't know where the Lost and Found or even the pub they had mentioned was. Though knowing Dean, he should probably try for the bar first.

He turned around slowly, taking in all the tents and stalls around him. No pub though. He snuck a glance back at the tent the boys had disappeared into before leaning on his toes to try and see further.

Nothing. Just more tents and rolling countryside in the distance. Wait, rolling countryside? Not exactly an American description. _Crap, I'm in England? Dean is going to kill me._

_If I can find him_. He picked the direction with the most people and set off. The first person he stopped for directions was a young man about his age wearing a bright purple and orange dress – no, robes – and was trying to get a broom to fly into his hand by yelling at it.

"Excuse me, do you know if there's a bar, err... pub around here?"

The man looked up, a pleasant smile on his face. "Sure, just go down..." He turned around to get his bearings. Finally he pointed behind him, "That way, and then hang a left. Dragon's Mane, you can't miss it."

"Thanks."

Sam turned to go as the man looked back down at his broom.

"Hey wait!"

Sam paused.

"You're not American, are you?"

Sam turned around. "Yes..."

"You wouldn't happen to be a hunter, would you?"

"How did – have you seen...?"

"You mean you are?" At Sam's nod, the man beamed. "That's awesome! I mean, you ask and you ask, but I never actually thought I'd meet one..."

Sam felt his hopes plummet.

"I'm Osiris, by the way. Osiris Barnitch."

After a moment, Sam shook his hand. "Sam Winchester."

Osiris paused. "Really?"

"Yyyyeah...?"

At the admission, the guy was looking at Sam like he was the coolest thing to walk the Earth. He opened and shut his mouth a few times before he pointed in the same direction as before. "Hey, you want me to show you to the pub?"

And that was a little too much man-crushing for Sam to deal with. "No, thanks. I can manage."

"Are you sure? I mean I could..." He trailed off when Sam held up a hand to stop him. "Oh. Alright." Osiris looked crestfallen. "Well, I'll just be here if.. y'know... you'd like to chat or... something."

_Uh–huh._ Sam felt he should say something, but didn't want to give the guy an opportunity to start up again. He turned and left.

When he got down to where the bar was supposed to be, he realised he'd been duped. There were nothing but tents as far as he could see – not a single building or stall that could constitute a bar. He sighed.

A loud bark of laughter drew his attention to the left. A lot of noise was coming from the red tent, and now that he looked, there was an awful lot of traffic going to and fro for such a small encampment. He went over to investigate.

By the entrance was an old–fashioned sign swinging in the breeze. _The Dragon's Mane_. Sam rescinded any comments he had earlier made about the Osiris Barnitch and went inside.

...And then stepped back out.

And then stepped back in again.

And out.

As Sam calculated the size of the canvas, he realised there was no way that much space could possibly exist inside such a small tent. _Which means magic. Which means they all know about it. Which means Dean's gonna be pissed._

_Unless he hasn't noticed_. Sam entered the tent a final time, his eyes searching out his brother's as he crossed to the counter.

When he didn't see him, he turned to the barman. "Excuse me, you wouldn't happen to have seen a man about this tall by the name of Dean, would you?"

The man didn't look up from the glass he was polishing. "You American?"

_No, Spanish actually. _"Yeah."

"And you're looking for Dean?"

He leaned back to a patron huddled over a nearby stool. "You hear that Bill? This guy's looking for Dean Winchester."

The other man chuckled.

_I never said his last name, that means– _"Have you seen him?"

"Sure kid, I seen him. Long before you were crawling."

"Wh-what?" Sam's mind raced to comprehend the implication in that statement. And it wasn't a very good one.

"Oh come on, don't act surprised."

Sam froze. _No, it couldn't have – It just couldn't! _"What's the date?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The date. What is it?"

"August twenty-fifth." He spoke slowly. When Sam motioned him to continue he added, "Nineteen Ninety-Four."

No, that wasn't right. It was supposed to be 2004. He didn't mean to go back four_teen_ years. And he certainly didn't mean to go back to _England_. And if he messed up that part, that meant it was very possible that Dean wasn't here, and hadn't been for a good long while if the bartender's comment was anything to go by.

He'd screwed up, and he'd screwed up big.

"You alright kid? You look like you could use a drink, and I'm not just saying that because you haven't ordered anything since you got here."

Sam looked up into concerned eyes, and let all his hope out in a long weary breath. "Sure."

"What'll it be?"

"Anything, just make it strong."

"Firewhiskey it is." He poured a glass, and after a minute's consideration, left the bottle. "You sure seem broken up about it, kid."

Sam looked into the glass, his eyes not really seeing it. "He was... family."

"Really? Then don't worry about the drink – it's on the house."

Sam looked up. "Did you know him?"

"Of him, sure. Man was a legend."

Sam smiled faintly. "I bet he loved that." He raised the glass to his lips. "Wait – 'was'?"

"Yeah, no one's seen hide nor hair of him in the last decade or so."

"But you don't know for sure?"

"Look, kid, I wouldn't count on it."

When Sam finally swallowed the drink, the man added. "Look, I didn't really know him, but some here did. How about you take a seat over there, and I'll spread the word. Who knows, maybe some people can share some of the stories they have."

Sam followed his hand to the booth in the corner. "Thanks." He smiled feebly and took the bottle with him.

He was nestled in the alcove for some time (three-quarters of the bottle, Sam was well and truly sloshed by this point) without anyone stopping by. In the next booth were two men who were waxing poetic, and clearly drunk "No see, even when Ff…Fv… You Know Who was around, we didn't have to pay four galleons for a sh… schfuff – thingy. And those were desperate times!"). Two tables over, a group of people had found great amusement in tipping liquor into a bowl for a scruffy black dog every time he did tricks. _Should they be giving him alcohol?_

"Excuse me, but Donald mentioned you were looking to hear stories about Dean Winchester?"

It was an older gent that stood before him. Wrinkled and grey and thinning on top, he had a stomach for two and a pipe in his mouth. With his suspenders and unkempt shirt, Sam was reminded of Bobby. _Wait, he doesn't look anything like Bobby_. Sam tilted his head. Though there is something Bobby-ish about him. _Probably the beard._ Sam nodded, happy to go with that.

The man took that as a cue to sit down. Once he was properly settled, he regarded Sam openly. "My word," He gasped, "You are but the spittin' image of Sam."

"You know why?" Sam leaned over conspiratorially. "S'cause I am Sam." He sniggered. "I am Sam. Sam-I-Am. And I don't-" he pointed for emphasis, "-like green eggs an' ham."

He was fully prepared to tell the strangers all the places he wouldn't like them – a boat, train, plane, a car, in the rain – when the man cut him off.

"Merlin!"

The rest of the patrons looked up at his outburst; even the dog ignored the neglected bottle that was currently tipped in his direction to stare.

Sam, however, was oblivious to all this.

"Pleased t'meet ya Merlin, I'm Sam." He held a hand out to shake, but it put him off-balance and he ended up tilted over the table at a downward angle.

"You… you can't be Sam." The man continued, and Sam realised he should really find out his name. Strangey McStrange would only last so long. _Or Emile LeStrange, perhaps. Or THE Stranger… The one stranger to rule them all_.

In his internal rambling he didn't notice that the man had pulled out a stick and was now pointing it at him. "Who are you?"

"Told you, m'Sam."

"Sam Winchester's dead. And even if'ee were alive now, he'd be at least fifty. So who are you?"

_God this guy had to be really slow. _He'd told him twice already. Sam decided to drag it out for him. "I. Am. Saaaaaam."

Without breaking his gaze (or lowering his wand), the man reached into his pocket with his free hand and removed something. He placed it on the table and slid it over.

Sam had to lean down to inspect it, because it was too far away. _Because I'm tall! I'm one-third giant! …Wait, am I?_ It was a picture. And with his nose practically pressed against the table he saw that he was in it. He was leaning against the Impala with-

"Dean!" He cried merrily. He smiled up at the man across from him "S'Dean!"

"Son, Dean gave me that picture going on twenty years ago." He stopped the bottle from reaching Sam's mouth. "Are you following me?"

He was. Or at least, he thought he was. "Sooo… Dean would be… older now?"

"Not just Dean." The man finally decided to tuck his wand away. "So how about you tell me who you really are? It doesn't do to go around pretending to be someone else."

Sam blinked. "Wha-huh?"

The man wasn't making any sense, so Sam decided to look back at the picture. He vaguely remembered posing for it. Sarah had asked to take a picture of them before they left, so she could remember them for saving her life. Dean had suggested that he take a picture of the two of them, a knowing smile on his face. He relented in the end, and Sarah thanked them, giving Sam a copy because she thought he'd like one.

Sam frowned. _How did Dean end up with it…?_

As he mused on that point, the dog trotted over and peered at him curiously. It barked, and when Sam turned to him, stole the photo into its mouth and ran out the door.

"Heyy – Dog!" Sam stumbled out of the pub after him.

By the time he caught his bearings – it was taking a little longer than usual, the world kept spinning on him – the dog was at the end of the makeshift street. He chased it around tents and people until he finally caught up to it at a counter outside what looked like an arena. While he was distracted by the enormity of the building in front of him, the dog disappeared again.

Sam looked around for him, but couldn't see him.

"Lost something?"

Sam's head swung upwards to the voice. An official-looking man was watching him curiously. Though, if Sam had to be honest, he'd say he only looked that way because of the clipboard. "A Black Dog," Sam informed him.

The man glanced down at the clipboard. "No black dogs, I'm afraid."

"No, it was a black dog." Sam insisted.

"I'm sorry, but I don't have a black dog on my list."

"What are you, the keeper of lost things?" Sam pffted him.

The man was about to reply when he smelled the alcohol on Sam's breath. "Look, perhaps you should go lie down…"

"Not until I find it!"

"Find what?"

"The picture!" Sam declared.

"Ahh, a picture," The man checked his board again. "Which picture is this?"

"The one the black dog took!"

"I've told you, there aren't any black dogs here!"

At that moment, a bark sounded from over by a table stacked with books and paper. Sam pointed to the dog he had been chasing! "Ha! Told you!" He then pointed to the man with the clipboard. "Liar!"

He cautiously approached the dog in hopes that it wouldn't run off again. When he was close enough, he slowly held out a hand. "Heeeere doggy. Give me the picture."

The mutt tilted it's head, and Sam was sure it was laughing at him. Slowly it stepped backward and Sam had a clear path to the picture it was guarding. He snatched it up before the dog could change its mind and held it close.

A soft whine brought Sam's attention back down to the dog. When it saw Sam was looking, it nudged the table with its snout.

After a few minutes with no results, Sam decided to help it out. "Table," He said, and the pointed to the dog. "Dog." And finally himself. "Sam."

When he had sobered up, Sam would shrug it off, but at the moment he swore the dog rolled its eyes at him. It then turned back to the table and shouldered it until it tipped over.

"Hey!" It was the Official. Apparently he wasn't happy. "You better get your mutt under control!"

"He's not _my_ dog." Sam slurred.

"Well he's ruining the – stop that!"

The dog was currently wading through the mess, tossing books this way and that.

The man pulled out his own stick and pointed it at the dog.

"Hey, leave him alone!" Sam snatched the stick from him.

"Give that back!" The man insisted.

"Nuh-uh!" Sam retorted, and stuffed it in his jeans pocket.

"Stealing a wand from a ministry representative is a punishable offense!"

"Pffft!"

"I'll report you, I mean it."

"Yeah, go ahead," Sam taunted.

"Fine, I…" He trailed off, looking at Sam anew. "Are you… American?"

Sam glared at him. He was getting sick of that question. "Yeah."

The man seemed to shrink back. His eyes widened and his mouth stopped working. When he bumped into another counter, he came to and stammered. "I… I…" And fled.

"Weird guy." Sam frowned. The liquor was starting to wear off as he turned back to the dog.

It was staring up at him with a letter in its mouth. Sam removed it and quickly sobered up at the writing on the envelope.

_Sam._

It was Dean's writing.

He tore it open, his hand dropping the bottle of firewhiskey he'd unconsciously brought with him from the pub. The dog snatched it up and, with one final glance at Sam, took off.

Sam didn't pay any attention to that as he read the letter before him:

_Hey Sammy,_

_We both know I'm not good with writing, or girly moments but... here goes._

_You sent me to the past, bitch. 19-friggin'-74. And England, no less. Good one. And you sent me there alone. I don't imagine that was intentional, so I'll let it slide. But still..._

_Thanks Sammy. You wanted me to have more time, and I got that. All things considered, it's not bad. I ended up teaching kids at a friggin' magic school. Hogwarts - what kind of weird-ass name is that? They know next to nothing about cars (I'm working on it). Oh, and there's some war going on with Vuldamort (no idea how to spell it, half the people won't even say his name). What else, what else... _

_I'm still hunting. No shortage of fuglies that need to be put down here. Killed a Nundu, apparently it's a big deal. You can probably look me up in the Book of Awesome Things Done Singlehandedly for that. Not that many demons around, though. Speaking of demons, I went back to Lawrence._

_Now, I know you're gonna give me some spiel about changing the past, but damnit - I had to try. As you can tell, it didn't do much difference anyway. (You were an ugly baby, by the way.)_

_Not much else to say. If you're reading this than it means I ain't there to tell you in person, which is a damn shame. Though, I probably went out doing something awesome._

_Oh, one last thing - consider it a dying wish (Yeah, I know I've had a billion of those, but this is important). I got a son named Blaise. And yeah, his mother named him. He's got her last name too, because I kind of made a few enemies. It's Zabini. So if you could track him down and... I dunno, make sure he's alright. I've got a picture, though he's only four so I don't know how much help it's going to be. As you can see he takes after his mother, which is a shame, because we all know I have gorgeous eyes._

_That's about it. Take care, Sammy._

_And thankyou._

_Dean._

Sam checked the envelope and found a picture – a moving one, no less – of a small, dark-skinned boy riding a broom. He had Deans' cheekbones and freckles. And Dean's smile. But everything else belonged to someone else. Someone he'd have to meet. Soon.


	6. Out of One's Element

Out of One's Element

* * *

The first thing Sam did after he read the letter was read it again, just to make sure he hadn't imagined it in his inebriated state. And again. After the fifth time through, he pulled the first person he could find over and made them read it to him. Slightly confused, they obliged and Sam stopped them a paragraph in; finally accepted that it was real.

The next thing he did was try and track down that dog that had led him here. He wandered around for… he didn't know how long he had wandered, but the sky was considerably darker than what it had been when he started, which meant that it was about to get considerably lighter very soon. He eventually gave up when he managed to stumble across the bar he had been in before, and went back in hopes of talking to the people who had been feeding the dog. They were gone, and so was the person who had sat down in his booth.

He slumped down into the seat, exhausted. His eyes barely had time to drift closed when the bartender's voice cut into his reverie.

"Hey kid, Time to clear out. We're packing up."

Sam blinked a couple of time as his mind started back up. "What time is it?"

"Four-oh-four."

"Right. Four-oh-four, Nineteen Ninety-Four." He struggled to sit up. "You know anyplace I could crash?"

The bartender frowned. "It depends on what you want to crash."

"I mean sleep. Know anywhere?"

"Your home?"

Sam refrained from rolling his eyes. "If I had one, do you think we'd be having this conversation?"

"You're in a pub, son. Stranger conversations have happened here."

Sam conceded that was probably true.

"You want me to call the Knight Bus for you, or do you think you can manage on your own?"

"Night Bus?"

Donald sighed. "I guess that answers that. Come on."

He ushered Sam out of the bar by the back door and stopped him at a large patch of unoccupied grass. He held up his wand and a few seconds later a _BANG!_ popped Sams' ears and a flash momentarily blinded him.

When he finally managed to chase away the residual light burned into his retinas, he noticed a purple British double-decker – no wait, _triple_-decker – had appeared. Emblazoned on the side were the words _Knight Bus_ in a fancy script.

Donald turned to him. "Can you take it from here?"

Before Sam could reply with his own brand of sarcasm, a terrified scream pierced the night. Sam turned to the source but couldn't make anything out.

"Well, are ye comin' in or aren'tcha?" A pimple-faced youth hopped down the steps to see what had garnered the attention of his possible passenger. He stopped short on the last step when another scream echoed. "Merlin, Wha' was that?"

Donald took a breath. "S'trouble, s'what it is."

Another panicked scream sounded out, and Sam straightened up. "Someone's hurt."

More startled shouts and cries started to accompany the others. Without another word, Sam took off in the direction of the noise, any lingering fatigue long gone.

Stan Stunpike turned to Donald. "Is'ee a bit daft in the head?"

"American." Donald replied.

"Ah. Poor bugger."

.

Sam darted around the tents and through the gaps without pause. Witches and wizards all milled about in a mixture of puzzlement and fear, the latter being more prevalent as he neared the source.

Instead of some sort of supernatural creature terrorizing the masses, he found that it was in fact a regiment of wizards terrorising what appeared to be a family. Not wanting to rush headlong into a situation he wasn't exactly sure about, he paused for a second to assess. When he noticed that he wasn't the only one trying to stop the group that seemed to take great pleasure in contorting the figures in embarrassing and painful positions, he leapt into the fray.

Weaving around the two wizards casting magic at each other, he snuck up on the person he noticed waving a wand in correlation with the small child spinning in the air and promptly punched him square in the face. The child gave another shriek and fell from the sky. Thankfully a redheaded man happened to be standing underneath and managed to catch the girl before she hit the ground.

When Sam was sure he was on the good side, he moved onto the next person.

It took him two other people – a broken leg and a bleeding nose – before he tripped a masked figure and snatched his wand. He snapped it in half and the mother dropped out of the sky… right on top of the person who was taunting her, sending him sprawling back down to the ground.

Sam went to help her up, standing on the man's foot as he reached for her. When another person rushed in to help the woman, he turned his attention to the dark-robed man in a mask. Keeping one foot restraining his arm – rather painfully – he kicked his other foot up and flicked the mask off.

Pale blond hair curtained a pointed face that sneered at him. Sam raised an eyebrow, unintimidated. He sent his boot colliding into his face a second time, momentarily stunning him.

Threat down, Sam turned to the next person and lashed out with his elbow. Unfortunately he'd moved a little too fast and just broken the nose of someone on his side, if the plain clothes and red hair were any indication.

"Sorry," Sam said as the boy raised his wand. Behind him, another masked wizard was doing the same. "Look out!" Sam shouted, pushing the boy in front of him to the ground with such force that his glasses crumbled in a patch of dirt.

He didn't stick around to make sure he was alright, instead launching himself at the would-be attacker and disarming him with a quick jab to the throat. As his windpipe closed up, a loud scream resounded through the encampment, almost in mockery.

As one, everyone else seemed to stop and stare at a glowing skull that had appeared in the sky. A snake was slithering out of its mouth in an ominous light. The fear began in earnest then; the screams coming from all around in an almost deafening wave. He felt more than heard the _pop_ to his right, like a small vacuum of space needed to be filled suddenly. When he turned to look, he noticed the person he'd disarmed had disappeared, and a cursory glance notified him that all the other people he'd beaten in the past ten minutes had started to disappear with little _pops_. He turned back to the one he'd managed to unmask and saw widened eyes and gaping mouth. With his unkempt hair, he looked like a frightened, wild animal about to be devoured. He scrambled back a few steps before he too disappeared with a _pop_.

By the time his companions managed to digest the new information, they turned back to find that everyone they had been fighting had disappeared, and the remaining father and son floating in the air had fallen to the ground with unceremonious _thuds_.

There was an instantaneous flurry of movement as they all snapped back into action. Half of them took off in pursuit of the skull whilst the others helped the family to their feet. When they were all standing, one of the wizards pulled out his wand and pointed it at them. Sam moved to intercept but was cut off by the burly redhead who had caught the daughter.

"It's alright, they're just going to obliviate them."

While Sam contemplated the meaning behind that, another gangly redhead joined them and confirmed his suspicions.

"I hope so, I wouldn't want to remember that either." He sighed. "Alright, better help Perce, looks like he took one to the face."

So they were brothers. Along with the one whose nose he'd broken. _Right. I should probably…_ "Hey, tell him I'm sorry about the whole nose thing."

They turned to look at him. Then shared a glance with each other. As the seconds drove on, Sam got the impression they were having an entire conversation by themselves. _Definitely brothers_. Seeing them interact put him in mind of his brother. His brother who had mistakenly been sent twenty years to the past and whose current whereabouts were unknown.

His internal monologue trailed off when the taller one cleared his throat. "Yeah, we'll let him know."

"That reminds me of something, I'll meet you back at the tent." He shared another look with his brother before he disappeared with a _pop_, leaving the long-haired brother to see to the other. He needn't have bothered, as the youngest of the three was already up with a handkerchief to his nose and his like-new glasses back on his face.

Not really wanting to be around for an awkward conversation, Sam made himself scarce. His feet had carried him into the forest before he'd really acknowledged where he was going. As he listened for signs of life, he heard a recognisable voice off to the right and, considering it was a rare thing for him at the moment, decided to pursue it.

He reached a small clearing wherein a group of males seemed to be gathered around a… well it couldn't possibly be human. Its white hair seemed to shine in the moonlight, and as Sam paid attention to her the hairs on the back of his neck rose, indicative of years of hunting. She was doing something to these people, these men. _Wait, are they all men?_ He should confirm his suspicion, but he wasn't willing to take his eyes off her. _Wait, what if that was how she affected people?_

He jerked his head away and spotted the kid from the bus. He was attempting some sort of male posturing which turned out to be more comical than impressive. In fact, now that he had noticed, all the men seemed to have reverted to Neanderthals. _She has to be a siren_. Or at the least, some distant relation. Running through what little he knew of them in his mind, he quickly clamped his hands over his ears when the snippet about aural influence flittered through his head.

...Except now he realised that holding his hands to his head didn't give him much by the way of options to stop her. And now that Sam thought about it, he wasn't sure he even could take her; his adrenalin rush had worn off quickly and he was feeling much more drained than normal, lightheaded even.

With his hands on his ears, the feeling of blood pumping through his head intensified and Sam knew that if he didn't do something soon, things were going to get much worse for him. He didn't know exactly how she was doing it, but Sam's energy had dropped exponentially in the last minute, and even the idea of summoning up any course of action required too much effort. In fact...

It wasn't so much a _thud_ as it was a series of thumps that marked Sam's ungraceful collapse onto the dirt and roots of the forest floor. Had he the hindsight to think back past his present situation, he might have realised that excessive alcohol, no water and running flat-out on adrenalin would not be the best course of action to take directly after giving up a pint of blood.

But the thought never really crossed his mind, and he ultimately blamed it all on the siren in the woods.


End file.
